


magnolia bloom

by hellhoundsprey



Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Barebacking, Belting, Bigotry, Bottom Dean Winchester, Bruises, Castration, Choking, Cock Warming, Collars, Forced Prostitution, Glory Hole, Half-Sibling Incest, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Bondage, Objectification, Omega Dean Winchester, Past Character Death, Penectomy, Power Imbalance, Reproductive Coercion, Romanticized Rape, Sadism, Scratching, Sexism, Size Difference, Soulless Sam Winchester, Spitroasting, Top Sam Winchester, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Dirt-caked sneakers and sun-deprived skin and Sam loses his head over, and over, and over, and over.2020 kink bingo square 05: body modification
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602964
Comments: 22
Kudos: 138
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020





	magnolia bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silver9mm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver9mm/gifts).



> My work count on this site reaches triple digits with this gem ❤. **We'll celebrate in style by open writing prompt time over on tumblr in approx. 3 weeks** (I'm moving apartments atm), so feel free to swing by. (I'll post an extra announcement over on tumblr once the prompts are open, of course.)
> 
> This entire thing is a clusterfuck of DIRTYBADWRONG. Abuser!POV so things are extra contorted. 
> 
> Fiction =/= reality. You know the drill.
> 
> Please read **all** the tags and stay safe.

The forty-minute commute—ten by subway and thirty by bus, and it could be worse, sure—doesn’t grow on him, probably never will. There’s always that spark of frustration, somewhere, underneath the surface. The years toned it down to what Sam feels about most things: numbness.

Out in the curb idles the Impala. Sam passes it, the forgotten once-greenery of their front yard; only stops to empty the mailbox. He begins to separate ads from bills and late notices as he walks. His backpack slaps his already-aching back; his gym bag is strung from his shoulder. Out here, Sam can hear the TV running, Dad rummaging around in the kitchen, the neighbors screaming at each other (and their kid crying), again.

Still sorting through the wad of mail, Sam lets himself in. He drops his keys into the bowl by the door and has toed out of his falling-apart sneakers by the time he notices the kid sitting on the couch.

_His_ couch.

Sam meets those eyes—the kid is all clueless but firm with his socked feet up on Sam’s coffee table. Crumbles of chips in that lap, that face, on the sofa cushions, on those fingers frozen inside the plastic bag labeled ‘bacon flavored’.

Dad hollers, “Sammy? That you?” and emerges from the open kitchen with cans of tuna forgotten in his aged hands.

Sam’s eyes don’t leave the creature. “Who is that?”

“Have you heard of announcing yourself, young man? You _want_ me to get a heart attack?” All rhetorical, all empty anyway, so he adds, “That’s Dean. I will explain later, okay?”

“How about you explain _right now_?” and Sam blesses his father with his full attention for that, lets him seep in his irritation and discomfort and while John is just as alpha as Sam is, he’s also old and tired.

John leans his shoulder into the doorframe to groan, “Okay, great—you two are brothers, alright? You happy? Come help me with this, Samuel, will you?”

Sam searches for the joke, the punchline. Can’t find it in Dad’s face, his scent, his voice.

He gives another confused look to the teen in his living room, on his furniture, and finds those eyes again—green and wide and nothing like Sam’s, or Dad’s. Light blond mop of hair where Sam’s is straight and brown.

That pouty, sad face. Strong jawline. Handlebar ears.

Sam joins his father in the kitchen without looking back.

He tosses the mail onto the kitchen counter, shoulders his bags off himself. Requests, loudly, “Why is he here?” and Dad hushes, “We’ll talk about that later.”

Sam’s fist comes down on the counter hard enough to knock over the nearby boxes of Mac n Cheese.

“WHY IS THERE _A BITCH_ IN MY HOUSE, DAD?”

“Jesus Christ, Sam—”

“I’m _not_ in the mood, Dad! I’m _not_ , okay?”

John urges, “It’s just temporary,” with his voice as low as possible under the racket spilling from the TV, “an emergency situation—issues with his foster family and I swear to you I didn’t know, I had no freaking idea myself, Sam, so please turn it down and let me figure this shit out, alright?”

Sam laughs. “Awesome.” He tosses his hair out of his eyes, stems his itching hands into his hips. “Just awesome.”

A can of soup is what turns out to be closest to him. He grabs it and smashes it to the tiled kitchen floor.

The bang is satisfying and the mess immediate—spatter of too-sugary tomato pulp on their pants, their socks, the floor, the lower cabinets.

Dad nearly slips on it as he scrambles to stop Sam’s arm from adding another.

Growls, “That’s _enough_ ,” and Sam snarls. Yanks his arm free eventually, once Dad lets him, and begins to stash the remaining groceries away in strict silence.

~

Sam puts the food on the table. Not only figuratively.

Notices the kid with his hands clasped atop the table and his face one huge question mark while John and Sam himself are already digging in.

Sam grunts, “What?”

“Go ahead,” encourages Dad as he rips a piece from the loaf of bread. “It’s okay, kid. We’re not too much into God in this house.”

The omega looks back and forth between the two before he reluctantly picks up his spoon.

Sam considers him with another warning look before he resumes his meal.

~

“Is he mute or something?”

Dad scoffs. “And here I thought there was _one_ thing he didn’t do wrong in your eyes.”

“He’s a fucking brat,” decides Sam as he transfers the next piece of cutlery to the drying rack with emphasis. “No wonder they didn’t want him anymore.”

“He’s just a kid, Sam…”

“Yeah, and enlighten me again how that happened?”

Dad’s face crumbles. No reply.

Sam puts both hands on the edge of the sink. The soap bubbles on his skin pop open, unprotected against the lack of water.

Kid’s already upstairs. Sam’s voice keeps itself low for his own, personal sake.

He feels sick. “How old is he? Fifteen, sixteen?”

Quiet, “Fifteen, yeah.”

“She was dead for two years, Dad. _Two_.”

He hates that there is no reply. No excuse. Not even an attempt at one. No nothing.

As always.

“You’re such a fucking joke.”

They finish the dishes without another word. Sam does a last round of cleaning around the kitchen, the living room. He drags the vacuum out to get rid of the crumbs Dad’s bastard left behind. Smoothens the cushions, fluffs the pillows.

He wipes the TV remote down with disinfectant, aligns it with the edge of the table where he leaves it, lights off. Upstairs.

The door to his unofficial office is drawn shut.

Light peeks out from underneath, and Sam just stands in the corridor for a while. Breathes. Tries to accommodate. Tries to spin back into his body, into order.

He uses the bathroom, brushes his teeth, slips into bed. As he closes his eyes, the house rests in its usual quiet. Even on the rare occasions where Dad _is_ home, it’s like he’s not here at all. Doesn’t feel like it. Hasn’t felt like it in years. Sam can’t remember that last time.

As he lies there, eyes closed, drifting off blissfully fast, the last moments he spends awake are the most vulnerable. His weakest.

Sam falls asleep within minutes, like clockwork.

~

He blames the pressure, the lack of time. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to stay sane going to law school, doing an internship, working retail part-time, all at once.

Sam’s not himself most of the day—is the ‘nice young man’, the ‘bright kid’, the ‘golden boy’. He’s everything they want him to be and more. He succeeds and surpasses. It’s his job. He’s good at it.

As long as he doesn’t stop, he can run forever.

His day started at five AM and he doesn’t get a chance to check his phone until he’s already halfway down their street. Had noticed the buzz of a few messages earlier today, but the only contacts who actually mean anything would send it ringing, so it’s not like he has to care.

**Dad**

just got another call

be back soon. I’ll let you know

be nice to him

we’re the only family he’s got

_Read 7:58 PM._

Sam retrieves the mail, lets himself in. He pays for utilities while Dad coughed up a credit through a friend of a friend of a friend to stutter off the mortgage. Sam does repairs and he puts gas in the Impala. Sam cooks and cleans and dusts and polishes and makes phone calls.

His keys jingle inside their ceramic bowl.

“Take your feet off my fucking couch.”

Kid does that without a peep, so Sam stalks past him with nothing more than a strict glance. He tosses the mail onto the kitchen counter, walks back to take off his jacket, his shoes, his bags. Hangs it all neat and tidy by the door, like it’s supposed to be, before he returns to the mail. He works through that. To his right, the TV blares with laughter, unimportant chattering.

Once Sam is done, he puts the papers into their according piles and gets to his feet. He walks up to the coffee table, picks up the remote and turns off the TV.

“I don’t care what he told you,” says Sam, “but I’m not your brother. And I never _will_ be your brother. Before I associate myself with some filthy little gutter rat like you, I’ll gladly slice my goddamn throat. So, here’s what’s gonna happen.”

Sam sinks into a squat so they’re eye-to-eye. Senses the fear coming off the kid in choppy waves of too-thin breath, the thin set of that pale mouth. Not as much submissiveness in that face as Sam would like to see, but God knows what or who raised this one.

He speaks low, and soft, and clear.

“Once John’s gone, I’m the alpha in charge. And you will _listen_ to the alpha in charge, and you will do what the alpha in charge _tells_ you to do. No talking back, no questions. Are we clear?”

The omega gives a faint, paralyzed nod.

“When I ask you a question, you say ‘yes, alpha’ or ‘no, alpha’.”

A timid, “Yes, alpha.”

“Fucking speak _up_ , bitch.”

“ _Yes, alpha_.”

“See, that’s not so hard. Even you can do it.” Sam raises back to a tall stand. “Now cook us some dinner. I’m starving.”

Kid lets himself get shooed off easily enough, so Sam takes his place on the sofa. Stacks his feet atop the coffee table and turns the TV back on.

No movement in Sam’s peripheral.

He sighs, raises his eyebrow as he turns to face the rat.

“Did I stutter?”

“What, uhm.” Kid shrugs his meager shoulders underneath his oversized hoodie. Looks lost and too-young despite the protruding lines of his facial bones. “What should I make?”

“Don’t they teach that shit in bitch school?”

Kid looks like he wants to sigh, to retract himself from this situation. Sam enjoys the view.

“Look, mac n cheese or whatever; I don’t care. Just do it.”

And thusly, the omega vanishes into the kitchen. Doesn’t have to be reprimanded, even though it takes a little long for Sam’s likings until there’s the clatter of plates, until the bitch carries their meals to the dinner table.

So, Sam comments, “Took you long enough,” and gets up to snatch his share from the table to eat it seated on the couch instead.

He leaves the dirty dishes in the sink for the omega to take care of and treats himself to a long, hot shower. Feels the tension of the day washing away, down the drain. Sam closes his eyes. Lets himself be enveloped by warmth, by comfort.

He aches.

A fresh tee, sweatpants. He slips his watch back on his wrist—a graduation present from his former social worker—and passingly towels his hair dry while he fishes the camcorder from a tightly crammed shelf.

Sam shakes the towel out before he drapes it over the back of his chair and makes his way down the short corridor.

First fucking strike is that the door won’t budge immediately when he turns that knob.

A tight nasal inhale.

No noise from inside.

He rattles on the door.

Stumbled rush then, distant, “Sorry, wait,” the familiar click of that particular lock coming undone.

Sam gives him a handful of seconds before he pushes the door open, successfully this time, just so it doesn’t hit the kid right in the face.

“You do that again and there won’t _be_ a door to lock, understood?”

A weak, “Sorry,” and Sam pulls the door closed behind him despite them being the only souls inside the house. Blind habit. He doesn’t correct himself.

Asks, “What are you doing?” despite the open book on the brand-new bed, despite the laid-in sheets he didn’t even remember they kept.

The room is as claustrophobic as it ever was. Sam’s desk is still here, his books, his files.

Kid mumbles, “Reading,” and Sam inquires, “What, for school?”

“Yeah.”

Sam scoffs, invades the space further. Scrunches his nose at the scent of cheap new furniture. Spots a pile of untouched clothes on his table, tags still on.

“Kinda wasteful, don’t you think? Like spreading your legs requires a high school diploma.”

Sam catches those eyes just as they pan off, away from him. Ah. The sour spike of anger.

Sam tells him, “You know I’m not wrong,” and it’s sweet to know that he’s impressive enough to make the kid step back by stepping forward.

He thumbs the camcorder on.

“You ever sucked cock before?”

A palpable stab to that sad remainder of pride. Sam raises the cam to capture that—the baby-frown, the increasing distress.

“Nothing to be shy about,” assures Sam, eyes on the preview screen showcasing the sorry little thing in front of him with nowhere else to go. “You look the type.” A measured swipe of eyes towards the actual kid. “No?”

No reply.

“It’s ‘no, alpha’ or ‘yes, alpha’. Remember?”

“Fuck you.”

Sam splutters his laugh. “What was that?” Screen, kid, screen. “Say that again.” Step, step, and he’s right in that face—scents that terror, that sweat, teenage-grime tinted with sickly-sweet omega. The bitch on-screen glares at him despite the tremble to that too-fat lip. “Come on, say that again.”

Kid doesn’t.

Sam pinches that cheek, hard. Shakes that pretty head with this newfound handle and feels him tensing, steeling himself.

“Be a good slut and do what you’re told.”

The mouthful of spit hits him right below his eye and is warm only for the fraction of a second, cold by the time it truly registers, and Sam shakes the stun off with another burst of laughter.

Truly feral now, “Oh, that’s how you want it?” and the kid bites back a whine when Sam fists into his hair, yanks on him hard (and so easy). “Alright then. Alright.”

The camcorder finds its place on the new nightstand. Two hands try to free the rat from Sam’s grip, but they’re nothing; Sam doesn’t even _feel_ those nails.

“First time for everything, right?” and there’s an initial noise from that throat upon getting pushed down, his back to the bed and those legs collapsing, folding in on themselves.

Sam drinks that shit up.

Cradles it. Craves it.

More. “You’re gonna love it,” he promises while yanking his sweats down just low enough for his cock to leap free; half-hard already just because he can smell that cunt, because that’s how it’s supposed to be. “’Megas like you were made for this. Fucking _open your mouth_.”

One hand holding his cock, the other still in that hair, he rucks at that skull with primal authority. It’s his right, they both know that.

And yet, this Dean-kid makes a face. Squeezed-shut eyes, pinched mouth.

Sharp breath from that nose right on Sam’s dick as he smears it across that face.

“The more you fight, the more I’m gonna make you.”

Both hands on that face now; pinched button-nose and Sam’s remaining fingers pry at the corners of that mouth, the softness of those cheeks.

Dean’s hands try to push him off. The bedframe in his back sandwiches him between itself and the ungiving force that is Sam.

A choked-off grunt. Frustration, helplessness.

Sam plunges two fingers into that mouth once he can, once the air gets too thin and he grits, “You don’t bite, no, you fucking don’t,” and there’s a strangled sob spilling from where he shoves his cock inside.

Sam warns again, “Don’t,” that nose pinched again and his other hand going back into that hair once he’s fed a reasonable amount of cock past those lips.

Those eyes remain closed; that face remains twisted.

Sam pumps his hips once, twice.

“There you go. There you fucking go.”

Both hands into that hair now. A more stable stand, wide-legged so he can focus on the bliss of it. Can bury himself nice and watch himself fucking that soft little face.

He forces deeper and feels the kid gagging—hic-upped at first and violent soon and he shallows his thrusts then, hums pleased and rubs at that head all sweet.

“Maybe I was wrong after all, huh? First time? Really?”

Wet, nasal breath. Sam feels that sweat under his fingers, tastes and smells and devours it.

Those doll-lashes clump with a first surge of tears, and Sam smiles down, unseen.

“Wrap those lips around those teeth. Do it right. Yeah. Exactly.”

The heat slowly makes its way up his neck, into his head. Makes his tongue loose and his cock harder. Cute little noises from that throat and he’s thickened to fullness now, drags the leaking head of his cock across that swelling tongue, across that ribbed roof of mouth. Dips down that gullet and it’s beautiful, it’s perfect.

He should have jerked off before this. “Look at me.”

No reaction.

Sam’s fingers tighten in those strands of hair. “Look. At. Me. Bitch.”

Those watery eyes swim open, find him.

Those lips are flushed inside-pink. Pull inside-out on each upstroke, bulge so good around the girth of Sam’s cock.

Sam tooth-grins for that stubborn glint behind all those reflex-tears, despite the spotty flush of those cheeks.

“Don’t think I can’t smell that pussy getting wet for me.”

Dean’s glare earns a new shade. Sam pushes another still-dry half of an inch deeper just to see the flutter in those eyes.

“Told you you were made for this.”

Delirious, delicious draw-back, until the thick crown of his cock is barely-pillowed by those blown-out lips. Until he can feel that baby gulping for air, wheeze all over the mess he made.

Kisses it when Sam orders, “Kiss it,” and suckles on the slit like he wants it. Needs it.

Sam groans, “Jesus Christ,” and goes back in for another few much-needed strokes.

Dean produces a belched hiccup after he’s left empty once more; there’s spit reaching almost up to Sam’s pubes and it strings from Dean’s mouth in thick ropes and Sam slurs, “Get on the fucking bed,” and they’re in so deep Dean doesn’t even fight him that much.

Tries yanking his jeans up instead of down but Sam’s stronger. Has him face-down and that hoodie slips just a bit, reveals a pale lower back and there’s that even paler ass, freckled like the rest of him apparently. The tiny omega huffs weakly, stressed, once Sam growls low and alpha from his throat, once he pushes his thumb down that crack.

He chases the meager shine of slick back to its source; sinks his thumb in there despite the heavy resistance and gets sucked back at immediately, desperately.

God, it’s been so fucking long since Jess.

Sam’s knees hit the carpeted floor and he buries himself here. One hand on that hip to keep the kid in place, rock him back onto his face so he can eat him out better, push his tongue deeper, where the omega is sweetest, and softest, and best.

Hands in his face, his hair; he ignores those, the weak attempts to push him off, break his trance. Sam groans (in pain, in need). Slips his other hand down that taint then just to feel him from the outside, too, and his fingers don’t stop sliding down, down, down.

There’s nothing his fingers bump into.

They both stutter at that, flail at that.

Sam rubs his fingers here harder—takes note of the familiar but faint bumpiness of scar tissue, such a clean cut, _perfectly_ cut—

Slurs, “Ohmygod,” into those insides, wholeheartedly and fucking vivid with the pad of his index rubbing hard at that tiny little remnant they probably gotta leave for them to be able to take a piss, so fucking irrelevant and the omega sobs a first, “No,” then, true and tearful and Sam’s gonna lose his entire mind.

Sam practically jumps back to his feet, cock fucking pulsing in his palm as he begins to feed it past that slick but unwilling snap of a hole.

Dean truly fights him, now.

Kicks and flails and yells and Sam slaps him across his snotty, furious little face for that; wrestles him around so easy and Dean roars, sobs; bites Sam’s hand hard enough to break right through his skin and Sam hits him again, same side.

So easy to climb between those legs, pin him down, keep him there. Drip some more precome for how pretty the bitch shudders upon getting his hoodie and t-shirt pushed up into his armpits, upon getting his creamy, malnourished belly and the shy barest-hints of his baby tits revealed.

“Oh, you’re such a tiny fucking slut, aren’t you?”

Dean sobs as Sam bends him in the middle, both hands in one back of a knee and he sinks himself in despite the scramble of those hands, the violent clench of those guts.

A weaker whine, “Please,” and Sam’s still got two thirds to go and his glans already breaches that second hot mouth, guides him right into that pussy and he pants, “What, please what, huh?” and that’s it, that’s as far as he will go, grinding up against the faint knob of that cervix.

Baby whimpers, “N-not bare,” and Sam grunt-laughs, grinds himself deep.

“Imma do whatever I want with this pussy.”

Sam pushes on with short thrusts in and out just to feel the friction as long as it’s still there, not-drowned out by all that slick waiting for him. Purrs for the tight grip that tiny pink thing has on his cock, how too-big he is, how he’ll have to put effort into bringing the last couple of inches home. Looks down and between them just to see those frail fingers still holding on, paralyzed, pulling that pussy wider and pinker without meaning to.

And God, that bare mount of _absolutely nothing_.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna fuck this pussy every single fucking day.”

Kid sobs with the next heavy thrust, with the gravel and thunder of Sam’s alpha-full voice. Is all boneless now, forgot that he can scratch at eyes and tear at skin and just holds himself open, his barely-there tits pushed together but there’s barely anything to speak of; even his nipples are soft, inflamed-looking.

Sam leans down and in just to suck one into his mouth, swallows around the whole thing. Growls and feels that pussy clenching up so sweet, swears he can feel a gob of slick oozing past the thinly-stretched pink mouthing dangerously close to the last couple of inches of his cock.

Hands in Sam’s hair again—push-pull, indecisive.

Sam massages that quickly-swollen tit with mean laps of his tongue and the hollow suction of his cheeks and, lord, his knot is gonna pop. That faint burn and swell and he growls, bites down so Dean truly has something to whimper about, hears, “I, d-don’t, don’t come in me, alpha, please,” and tends to the other without missing a beat.

Has his knot swelling rapidly and fucking lives for the nasty sounds it pulls out of Dean every time he still manages to yank it free, pop it back in.

Was fucking close even without that fever-slurred, “I don’t wanna have a baby,” and is done, then, locks his hips with one last, powerful snap and lets his body take it from there.

Growls his pleasure around that soft-soft mound still between his teeth, against his tongue. Wet little hitched breaths into his hair and there’s arms around him, and he’s burying the kid, whole-body, and arms tight around that middle and he shouldn’t have, doesn’t quite fit but that pussy works him nevertheless, clenches and convulses and fights him but there’s no need, no use.

The omega kicks; ends up wringing his legs around him, ankles crossed, with Sam nursing on his dewy tit and Sam’s cock pumping with his release, filling him up where it counts.

“Sweet thing,” croaks Sam eventually, half-conscious but he’s made it up on one elbow, stirs his fingers through that wet, sobby mouth. So wet here, too, smelling like Christmas and summer and everything good. Like Mom and Jess and when Dad would bring back a toy, when they would go eat ice cream or grab a burger and Dad laughed at his jokes, would smile and listen and still be a _dad_ to him.

Dean grunts through his snot, around those fingers. Can’t raise or turn his head, and Sam swears he can feel the faint beat of his cock bulging out that oh-so-darlingly flat lower belly, cream it up so so well, like it’s supposed to.

A sugary, exhausted huff upon Sam gathering a meager mouthful of spit, slop it into the already-there mess. He rubs it in with his fingers, feeds three of them past the clutch at the very back of that baby-bird throat.

“Sweet fucking thing,” hums Sam, already drifting off.

~

The twin size of the bed seems like a grotesque wink at Sam. Did their dad think that it would stop him? That it would make a difference?

(Or, maybe, John didn’t consider this possibility at all. Would suit him. As if Sam still was that child bawling his eyes out, demanding to be taken home from summer camp because he wet his bed and everyone knew.)

Dean moans in his sleep before he stirs awake. Sounds different, then, shier and hurt. Grabs behind himself, confused, and Sam licks at his scent glands in return, whispers, “Shh-shh-shh,” while he fucks him in strict, long strokes.

Baby smacks his lips, murmurs nonsense. Sam buries his nose in that hair, those wafts of pleased, soft omega coming off of every inch of that skin.

He knots him twice more, that night.

Slurs, “Fuck,” and, “Shit,” when he hears his alarm going off in his room, all the way through the wall.

He peels himself out of the mess they made, picks his sweatpants from the floor and leaves the room. He showers, gathers his shit, skips breakfast.

His brain is slowly crawling back alive around noon. When he finds himself staring into the void behind his computer screen with the office buzzing around him.

He rubs at his eyes behind his glasses. Huffs, exhausted, and helps himself from the coffee machine in the tiny kitchen.

He doesn’t know what to expect when he comes home. Part of him doesn’t care. Part of him is terrified, but that’s just a small fraction. Biggest part is prepping him for the worst, as always, so he won’t be too devastated once it eventually happens.

But he comes home and there’s a bundle of blankets on his sofa, and in the midst of the bundle is a guilty little face, staring back at him.

Sam recognizes the socks hiding the softness of those feet that slip from underneath the blankets down to the floor, and he almost lets himself smile. Almost.

Sam drops his keys into their bowl and closes the front door behind himself.

~

Sam is not unreasonable. Quite the opposite, really.

“I’m gonna get some plan B tomorrow,” he hums. “An’ some birth control.” (He doesn’t share: the kind that keeps you in some constant state of semi-heat, because I feel like if I have to pay for it, I should at least get something out of it.) “There, you happy?”

Dean informs him, “Great,” dishonest and Sam smiles thin around his current mouthful of dinner.

“If you want me to change my mind that badly, you just gotta tell me.”

Dean corrects himself to, “Thank you, alpha,” and Sam feels triumphant despite the lingering sarcasm.

Seeing that bitch all flustered and scared is a treat in itself.

Used to be harder with Jess. With all that confidence of hers, sometimes even rivalling with Sam’s, and God that shit used to throw him off. But it became better, with time. Would be great by now, probably. Perfect.

“You went to school like that?” Smelling like that? Looking like that?

Dean pushes his food around on his plate. Lost his appetite. Confesses, “No.”

“You can’t just skip school whenever you feel like it.”

“I’m not enrolled yet,” he murmurs, “they’re still figuring that out.”

Sam shovels another mouthful into his cheeks. Considers the kid, the bony jut of his collar bones, the stray bruises Sam apparently sucked into that throat last night.

He points his fork down, cocks his head. “Your fake folks didn’t want you anymore?” No reply. “How come?”

Dean doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at anything, not even the stray pasta his eyes are following around and around on his plate.

“What did you do, huh?” Sam leans in now, aware of how much space he can take up if he tries. Some hair falls loose from his ponytail, drifts into his eyes. “Bet that Ken doll procedure wasn’t cheap. Why give you away after that kind of investment?”

Dean mumbles, “Leave me alone.”

Sam’s cheeks dimple up. “Did Mommy get jealous?”

Baby frowns at him. Entirely exasperated.

Sam’s brain sing-songs _bingo_ while the omega snarls, “What did I _do_ to you, man?! It’s not like I WANTED to end up here!”

“Did Daddy tell you to kiss it, too?”

Sam’s system flails through several scary milliseconds of horror when Dean changes his grip on his fork, closes his entire furious fist around it and throws himself at him, across the table, at any sacrifice.

Alpha-instincts kick back in just in time and even though Dean and him and the chair _do_ crash to the ground and that cutlery _does_ come closer than he’ll ever admit, he _does_ manage to grab at that arm and keep it at bay; to grip the entire omega and throw him onto his back, pins and holds him despite being growled at, hissed at, spat at.

He masks his sweat by throwing a lopsided grin, keeping both of those wrists wrangled easily in one paw of his own.

Just like the kid, he angles the fork like a knife—holds it over Dean’s face and lowers it, lowers it until Dean thrashes, the fucking heathen, and Sam tuts at him, places the fork into the almost-gap between those solid rows of bared teeth.

“Open your fucking mouth.”

Dean does, but not without forcing Sam to wedge that metal in-between with unnecessary violence.

Gags, all hollow, when Sam pushes the fork deeper, pressing it on that tongue facing down and forces that jaw wider like that.

He takes his time to gather a healthy mouthful of nasty to spit right back into that dirty fucking throat. Feels those bones shifting in his merciless grip when Dean jolts, tries to break free, still thinking he’s got a chance.

Dean gets another. And another.

Is tearing up from coughing, from having his chest pressed down on and not getting enough air. Smells less like murder when Sam pulls the fork from that mouth, scrapes it down the side of that mouth, down that neck. Gets four wobbly streaks of red for his troubles, trailing down and down and down until the neckline of Dean’s shirt won’t let him push further.

Sam rocks the fork in place, slightly below that perky tit; eyes locked with the omega like this is a challenge.

Which, apparently, it is.

“Starting to see why nobody wants you. Feral little cunt.”

Sam presses the fork into that nipple and while Dean hisses and his eyes grow wetter, he doesn’t say another thing.

Sam twists the fork while still pressing down until there’s that faint noise, a whimper not held back far enough.

He advises, “Might wanna watch that attitude of yours around me,” and, “Cut-down little O’s like you sell well out there, I imagine.”

Dean’s chin wobbles adorably; a high-pitched yelp when the fork lets up on him, when he nearly comes off the floor with the relief.

“Don’t fight me,” says Sam, tosses the fork far into the open kitchen, redistributes one spindly wrist into one of his hands each so he can spread the kid out better, get those claws away from their faces. Repeats, “Don’t fight me,” and leans in close to that face, feels that flat breath hitting him, his lips, his chin.

A hesitation, and they should be too close to see into each other’s eyes.

Sam closes his mouth over that unwilling little thing. Moves his lips to encourage him to do the same before he pushes his breath and tongue in there. Roams around, maps out, laps at that tongue.

Dean inhales all sweet. Shivers his exhale and keeps his hand where Sam pressed it down even though he now cups that unharmed left tit with it instead, kneads at it like a cat until Dean softens further, melts into the kiss.

Sam has him swallowing moans soon enough.

Slips his hand underneath that shirt to pluck at that nipple right, weaves his hips between those thighs. Dean’s arms are still flat on the ground, stretched out over his head.

“You feel anything? Here?”

Dean’s eyes pussyfoot open halfway. Sam studies that face with his jeans-clad dick grinding where he knows that, naturally, even male omegas have a little something. Dick and balls, useless, sure, but there’s still anatomical sense; and the entire issue with inter*folk.

Sam provides, “Nothing?” and Dean withholds his voice all over again.

Sam tells him, “Fine,” and, “You don’t need that anyway, do you?” and laps into that mouth anew. Pulls that shirt off and those sweatpants down and Dean smells like sweat, like despair and arousal and Sam’s spit. And tomato sauce.

Sam turns him belly-down, unzips his pants to straddle those thighs, guide his cock down and inside. Sees the sea of goosebumps on Dean’s back, the droop of that head.

Pulls his cheeks wide with one thumb on either side so he can watch his cock disappear in that wet-warm heat in slow-motion.

“Push your ass out. Yeah, just like that.”

Kid’s mostly snatched back up, even though Sam can’t tell how much of it is due to the position. Swallows him whole and doesn’t run out of guts until Sam can grind his overfull-again balls up against that hairless taint. Gasps here, caught, and Sam wonders if he can feel that cock kissing the floor through the skin of his belly, too.

Sam ruts into him just to take the edge off. Is too tired and doesn’t want to come, not with his glutes cramping up like a bitch from this unexpected exercise.

Kid’s pretty out of it by the time Sam takes a break—oozes frothed precome and his own honey-thick slick where Sam slaps his now-sticky cock down on, doesn’t quite close up all the way, no way.

Doesn’t dare ask so Sam pants, “Not done with this,” and, “You clean up the mess you made. Then come to my room.”

He staggers to his feet, stuffs his cock back into his now-stained pants. Zips up, makes his way upstairs for his bathroom routine, a quick wash.

They meet in the corridor.

Kid tries, “I was cold,” but lets Sam strip him where they stand.

“I feed you,” Sam muses as he frowns, thumbs and forefingers magically drawn to those soft tiny nipples, “so I get to see these whenever I want. Which is all the time.”

Dean makes a face. His hands don’t come up to slow Sam in his greed.

“You know how it works, right?” Nosed up against that ear and behind. “As long as there’s an alpha around you, we own you. You’re my little pocket pussy until you’re someone else’s.” A gentle nudge and Dean’s back meets the wall so Sam can crowd in on him better, can scent-mark him better, fondle those tits better. Can croon, “I own you,” into that pinked shell of an ear, can drown in the lack of a snarky remark.

The omega is told to lay on the bed, on his back, spread eagle. Sam takes the camcorder where he left it this morning, pulls the charger from its outlet.

Its red light blinks. Sam watches Dean watching him through the lens. Closes in on him all slow, knows what he looks like all bare and muscled and tall like this. Dean’s doll-eyes follow his every move.

Sam straddles the kid. Runs his hands down that throat and Dean is still looking into the camera. Cups a tit just because he can, squeezes it. Goes for the one he mutilated with that dumb fork, the one that looks worried and makes Dean’s mouth twitch.

“Does baby’s titty hurt, hm?”

Dean makes a point of not breaking eye contact despite being fondled. Despite Sam pinching where it’s already looking inflamed, rash-red and punctuated.

Sam brings his flat palm down on that nipple. Smacks it across Dean’s face next.

Grabs that too-pretty little face to squish it, make the kid fake-pout and frown and pull away.

Sam hears himself chuckling.

Hears, “You gonna put it in or not?” and splutters his laugh for that demanding, prissy tone.

“Already a slut for it.”

“I’m _tired_.”

“Good.” Sam positions the camcorder in the shelf next to them, checks the image in the flipped-around preview screen. “’Cause all you gotta do is lie back.”

He used to do this with Jess, a lot. Make her get all soft and sleepy and rut into her until he’d doze off as well—wake up, rinse, repeat. They spent days like that, entire weekends.

And Sam would tell her _good girl_ and other dumb shit. Would let her kiss his mouth, crane her neck for it would let her rub her face all over his scent glands, bathe herself in him. Gave her so much of him. He’s still so angry with himself.

“Maybe you _should_ have my baby,” he slurs, mouth full of salty skin, the copper tint of a bruise forming where he gnaws, where Dean’s pulse jackrabbits against his teeth. “Would look so good on you.”

A hum, the press of the heel of his hand where his cock very obviously throbs inside of his half-brother. Dean shudders back alive for that, murmurs, “No,” and swats at his arm, weak as a newborn. Lets Sam suck at his tongue, rub at his belly while he rolls his hips, grinds them together so so deep.

“Round little belly. Those cute tits of yours all swollen for me.”

Another disapproving sound. Sam sucks at the omega’s flushed cheek.

“Nine months of you all horny and heavy, hm? Sounds so good.”

Dean slurs, “I dun wanna,” and Sam chuckles.

“I know. All you want is to get used, all day, every day, without consequences. I know. All you’re good for.”

Dean squirms on his knot, under the closing pressure of both of Sam’s hands around his throat.

A choked-off little noise and Sam whispers, “Gonna get you a collar and tie you to this bed, huh? That better?”

Kid snaps tight on him as he convulses, as his eyes roll to their whites and Sam smells the faint, sickening rank of his own blood. Will find scratches down his back tomorrow and won’t be pleased, but they’re insignificant against this forgotten fucking right to claim, and breed, and knot.

Dean stays very limp that night. Sighs all broken every now and then, doesn’t seem to find the strength to hold onto Sam, do much more than weakly toss his head, let Sam finger his mouth, knot his cunt over and over.

God, that plan B better fucking works.

Sam purchases two, just to make sure. Wastes his lunch break for that, gets a raised eyebrow from Pete during check-out.

“Tough night, bro?”

“Shut up and do your goddamn job.”

“Alright, alright.”

Pete scans the (ironically) family-sized pack of B-FREE, strawberry flavor.

~

He closes the collar one hole too tight on purpose.

Grunts, “I don’t wanna hear it,” and Dean doesn’t open his mouth, but he glares at him over his shoulder.

“Eat that.”

“What is it?”

Sam reminds, “You know what I think about goddamn questions,” and pops one plan B and one of the pink pills out of their sheets to speed up the process. “Open up.”

Kid does, not without (smart) hesitation, but he swallows the contraception nice and dry. Makes a face, but he should have caught up on the fact that Sam won’t be impressed by that.

Tries to duck away from that hand reaching around and for his swollen tit, tells Sam, “No,” with that other hand between his thighs, squeezed shut too late.

Surges forward and away without a proper idea of where to go, and Sam takes endearing note of how he can still smell his come in him.

Latches onto that back of omega-neck and corrects, “Yes.”

He fucks him on all fours, on the couch. Loves how he can grip that heavy collar now, manipulate his bitch like he wants, when he wants.

Grunts, “Surprise,” and fucking _feels_ that shock surging through that tiny body, feels Dean fucking losing control over his muscles for a whole blessed moment.

He thumbs at the button again just for the sake of it.

After he’s done with him, kid’s out for the count. So, Sam lowers himself to take care of dinner. Chicken and pasta and peas—some much-needed protein.

He eats at the table with the TV running.

Faint stirring from the couch, where he left the bitch. He ignores it, inhales another mouthful of food.

~

Whatever made Dad think the kid would need a room of his own. Would deserve to have it. To take that space away from Sam, who worked for it, who fucking _pays_ for it.

“When’s he gonna be back?”

“Stop talking.”

Dean concludes, “You don’t know, huh?” and grunts for the surge of electricity.

Blinks his eyes, swallows. Looks right back at Sam, who is showered, and bare, towering over him on the bed he’s tied to. Ten bucks extra for that leash. Sam is good with money.

The only source of light is the lamp on the shelf, halfway hidden behind stacks and stacks of books. Nine PM. Ten, maybe.

Sam hears, “How did she die? Your mom,” and his hind-brain soothes that the manual said that it’s harmless, just a corrective measure, so it doesn’t feel bad to tap that remote again, and again, and again.

Kid sure trembles fucking corrected.

Sam grits, “Shut your fucking mouth,” and feels out of his body. Is so highly aware of him trembling, his blood boiling, and that Dean still walking and talking doesn’t aid in that. Dean existing, at all.

Dean’s voice sounds off, trembling. Those eyes drift to the wall, the framed picture. “That her?”

“Do you _want_ me to knock you out with this? ’Cause don’t think I won’t.”

“I have a pic of mine, if you wanna see.” Baby swallows again, has to work harder than he can around the too-tight pressure around his throat. “’S in my jeans. In my room.”

“Not your fucking room,” snarls Sam’s mouth, and Sam’s hand tosses the remote away so he can strangle the kid better.

The collar is hard underneath his palms, hurts him back the more he presses down. No fight left in the bitch; just lies there, knowing Sam won’t go through with it.

Sam’s head spins. “Not your room. Not your anything. You have _nothing_ , you understand?”

Those eyes are closed, won’t give him the satisfaction of him seeing them tear up under the pressure. All he gets is scarlet turning purple.

He spits, “You’re worthless,” and brings his already-aching palm down on that face as it gulps for air. Dwells in the heat against his skin, the stray dampness of those tears, that sweat.

Hears a weak, “Yes, alpha,” and yanks at the bitch to flip it around, ass-up.

Chortled, rattling breath. Those muscles won’t listen, and Sam helps where he can. Arranges and holds and orders, “Spread it,” and Dean tries. “Fucking do it right, bitch.”

Barely any slick, traces of his own come from earlier. Sam hocks as much spit in there as his mouth can come up with, but this won’t work.

He kneads at one soft globe of ass, back of a thigh. Keeps tongue-fucking the kid and worms one arm around and under to get at that chest. Pinch-milks here and that body melts.

Sam taunts, “All it takes for you to want it, ain’t it? So fucking easy,” and all the omega has to contribute is a huff into Sam’s pillow.

“Would let anyone in here as long as they play with these.” A pointed tug on that nipple. Sam rest-rubs his cheek over that smooth, freckled skin. Feels his stubble catching and hopes the irritated red is gonna stay for a bit. “Fucking slut.”

He pushes himself up to crawl over that folded-in body; head hanging low and one arm supporting his weight as he lines his cock up with the other. Loves that it’s a rougher ride this time, that apparently no matter how often he uses this one, he always recovers so nicely for Sam’s needs.

Whimpers, weakly, and Sam pulls that pillow from underneath that head to push it atop of it instead.

Ruts his way through, again unable to bottom out.

He snarls, “All you’re ever good for,” and God he hopes the promised side-effects of the contraceptive are gonna kick in fucking soon. That they’ll make this omega as submissive and dewy-eyed for his knot as it’s meant to be.

The flared head of his cock catches on the rubber-bandish sphincter of that pussy on every stroke. He goes weak-kneed for that, for it being so fucking tight and stubborn and yet receptive, wetter by the minute. Might be Sam’s own dribbled slick, so fucking full again he’s overflowing. Coats these insides and rubs it in, all his.

Sam sighs for, “God,” and sits back on his haunches, one hand idling on that ass to have that little more leverage that makes all the difference. Watches his cock slopping in and out of that too-small body, the hungry suck of it begging him back and pushing him out all at once.

He rubs his thumb where pink flashes all shiny with slick. Drags along the thick lip of it, already so much like Jess’.

His palm leaves an immediate print on that skin. He spanks it over and over.

Until he’s satisfied with the shade of red, until his hand hurts and tingles, all pins and needles. Hears those choked-off love sounds, barely-muffled anymore because the pillow has slipped and toppled and the leash is blessedly short, chokes his baby out without Sam needing to do anything but pull him back, away from where he’s bound him to the frame.

“You ever come, huh?” as Sam’s knot twitches alive, begins to grow solid. “From nothing but being fucked? Getting your little g-spot dicked?” And, “Maybe we’ll find out, huh?” and he knows it turns him on more than the omega. Not that Sam’d let him hear the end of it if it happened.

They’re tied seconds later. Sam’s thighs shake like a dog’s.

He’s all out of breath. Slurs, “There you go,” all drunk with it, the violent pulse of his balls drawing up, the goddamn relief of himself emptying inside something tight and warm.

He groans, lost. Tips himself forward to drape back over the bitch, spreads his knees so he can still rut his hips with his arms slung around that body.

Sucks on those already-raw scent glands as he purrs. Makes sure to grind where he knows all omegas like it. Where it’s slightly spongier and softer than anywhere else in there.

Or, more swollen.

Like in Dean’s case.

Enlarged and fucking ripe. Begging to be found out and rubbed stupid. And Sam gives him that. Feels himself spilling rope after rope of come all over it, fucking drenching it, rubbing it in. Dean is limp under the weight of Sam’s muscles, though, spineless and fever-heated and drooling his occasional, troubled breath.

Sam rolls them to their sides, eventually. Locked into big spoon and he’s free to run his hands over that full lower belly now. How soft it is with all that liquid bloating the omega all pretty. Like he’s maybe two months along.

Sam marks what he can reach despite the collar. Drifts off with his teeth sunk into that shoulder, one hand on a tit, one cupping his baby-sheathed cock from the outside.

~

Sam wakes up not tied. To the sight of the back of Dean’s head, the unwashed mess of his overgrown blond hair.

Kid’s rolled to his stomach at some point and breathes all peacefully.

Sam blinks. Still exhausted. Morning wood very much going on and it’s such a dull, possessive throb at this point. Like he’s fucking hungry for it.

He watches Dean sleep. How that tiny body barely moves with its breath. Should tell him to shower while Sam’s gone, but he doesn’t like the thought of Dean taking his collar on and off himself.

The milky white of Dean’s skin is scattered with scratches and bruises, now. With toothmarks, Sam’s DNA right there. Lost most of his CPS stench, being handled by too many hands, getting too little sleep and too much distress.

Only day three, and he begins to smell right. Like come and slick and Sam. Like honey and cream. Like softness.

Works so beautifully with that underlying pain. That sweet, addictive spice of uncertainty, of soreness.

Sam rolls him to his side all gently, doesn’t want him to wake just yet. Has Dean facing him and takes in the flutter of those lashes. The soft drag of them, so fucking vulnerable. The bruised skin of his cheek, the side of his mouth.

Sam kisses those lips, closes his eyes. Moves all slow so Dean stays out, lets him have this moment of peace all to himself. Cups that cheek and thumbs at the peach fuzz on that temple, flicks the tip of his tongue along the slick inside of that bottom lip, along those gums.

Dean hums, deeply gone.

Sam keeps kissing him. Brings his hand to that sweet-scented chest, kneads at the one that still has troubles healing. Squeezes it all gently, all of it a huge tease. Just to pry an unconscious noise from behind those teeth. Something to drink up and having it go straight to his dick.

He wraps a hand around himself, still pawing at the omega. Absently, just to take the worst edge off, to help subsiding the insistent urge. Sighs, because God, he’s hard. Avoids the tip but gets his hand wet nevertheless. Can smell it oozing into the wrecked sheets.

Dean’s body reacts to that, of course. It’s all biology, instinct. Sam goes back and forth between those tits, thumbs at one nipple at a time until they’re hard, abandons them again. Has Dean sighing, clenching his little thighs, all impotent, nowhere to go with it but have his pussy get wet for Sam; for any alpha’s cock, really.

Slurs half-asleep nonsense around Sam’s fingers, the musky, intense taste and scent of his precome.

“Whu…?”

“Get on top, baby. Come on.”

Sam has to unclip the leash, has to practically heave the omega where he wants him—all warm and laid-out, tiny hands uselessly draped over Sam’s pecs and Sam helps him lifting his head so he can continue feeding from that honey-mouth.

Dean moans, “No,” again at Sam nudging the wet tip of his cock where Dean himself is fucking soaked without his consent, doesn’t try to push Sam away or squirm away from that dick; not really.

Sighs his gasp over Sam’s tongue when Sam invades him, again, and Sam studies every twitch on that face.

The clench and relax. Twitch of those purple-ish eyelids, the pouty squelch of Dean deliberately kissing him back.

Dean’s so tiny, such a lightweight. Is easily moved on Sam’s cock; like a toy, a doll. Keeps panting his moans into their kisses, until Sam feels him rocking back into the movements. Trying to fuck himself, pushing his little body beyond its limits just to get Sam to cream him up again.

“So fucking wet for me.” Sam praises against blood-heavy lips. Against the line of drool keeping them connected until he licks back in there. “So wet you can hear it.”

Dean whines but keeps grinding Sam’s cock where he needs it. Lets Sam pull his cheeks apart, put his feet down so he can fuck up into him better.

Dean makes a true pleasure-sound at that.

Sam grins against that face.

“Feelin’ so good, aren’t you?”

And Dean sobs, “Yes.”

“Love me pounding that pussy, love it so much you’re fucking _drooling_ on me.”

And Dean vows, “Yes; _yes_ , alpha,” and truly slurs that; lets Sam lick his face, into his soft-softest mouth.

The bed squeaks gently. “Such a needy little whore, aren’t you,” and Sam’s got a feeling he could make Dean agree to anything right now.

Dean is all labored breath and sugared sweat by the time he’s rocking back on Sam’s inflating knot.

Sam has to consciously keep him from burying it in himself and earns a first eye contact for that—confused, fucking _out of it_.

Sam grinds that ass down on his full knot, beyond able to fit back in there now. “Gotta leave for—for work in—like—ten,” he manages, all teeth, between that mouth and his cock clenching at him as it spills and spills, violent throbs of it that grab him by his core and shake him, and Dean’s so wonderfully breathless, so delirious and sleep-soft and bed-warm on top of him.

Jess smiles into the room from her spot on the wall, a few feet above their heads.

~

He’s fucking elated. People can smell it on him, probably; the copious amount of sex and the pleased, smokey vibes from the certainty of having access to it again. And again. And again. As much as he likes.

He smiles a lot, can feel that in his face. He’s not used to that. He can’t care.

Sam wraps up a conversation with a customer as he catches sight of him—that blond halo of hair, the cruel green of those eyes.

The world spins remarkably slower. Even the constant elevator music echoing through the aisles seems to drone along more sluggish than usual.

Sam’s neck stiffens.

Dean prompts, “Excuse me,” and he’s showered. Is back in that rotting hoodie, that dirt-caked, saggy pair of jeans and he looks more translucent than ever in this artificial neon light of the store—looks fucking unreal, like a ghost.

“Where’s the chocolate milk?”

Sam doesn’t glare. Doesn’t think he can, out here, where others can see him.

Dean fixes him with the huge, accusing focus of his eyes. “I can’t find it.”

“Follow me, please.”

He feels himself sweating. Feels like everyone is staring—like all eyes are on him, all at once.

They stop in front of the relevant freezer cabinet. Sam’s godforsaken customer-service arm extends to the product in question.

Dean meets his eyes all deadpan. “Can you get that for me?”

Sam feels his face shifting. Presses, “Sure,” and pulls that door open.

He grabs one of the cartons, closes the fridge, holds the item out for Dean to accept.

Which he doesn’t. “I want a glass-bottled one, actually.”

Sam exchanges the content of his hand. Wants to snarl _what are you doing here?_ and, more importantly, _how do you know where I work?_ Sweats profoundly, now, highly aware of the risks the little shit puts himself under by walking around outside the safety of the house without alpha company. The bitch doesn’t seem to mind or care with his scent all calm and collected.

Sam’s teeth grit, hard.

“Here you go.”

“Is it organic?”

Sam’s grip on the bottle tightens. “Label says so, yeah.”

“Can you read me the nutrition value?” drawls the omega, and Sam notices Meg sticking her head out behind a nearby rack. He doesn’t have a choice.

He keeps his voice steady as he reads out loud. Tries his best to control his scent but the rank of his anger can’t help but seep through, naturally. Can scent it in Dean’s reaction to it, the extra-sweetness so there might be mercy, later, maybe.

Sam begs to differ.

“That’s a lot of sugar.”

“Maybe because it’s fucking _chocolate milk_.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. He speaks up for that, “You talk like this to all your customers, sir?”

“Apologies.” Sam exchanges the drink with another and presses it into Dean’s chest; curls his lip into a sarcastic smile. “This one’s unsweetened almond, no sugar. You’re welcome.”

“Wow, you’re RUDE,” exclaims the kid, and even though his hand goes for the bottle, he doesn’t quite close it, but Sam doesn’t notice soon enough and lets go.

The chocolate milk drops to the floor and explodes into a mess of shards and liquid, and while Dean yelps, “What are you DOING?” Meg storms up to them.

“Hey, you guys alright? What’s happening here?”

“Ma’am,” begins Dean, but Sam cuts him off: “I slipped, no problem, I’ll clean this up.”

Meg frowns back and forth between them; probably overwhelmed by the mess of their scents, their connection. Not the first time some omega is all over Sam, but even a blind beta could tell that this here is different.

Dean quips, “Ma’am,” all exasperated and she turns towards him, alpha instinct be damned, “ma’am, your employee is being _so_ rude, I didn’t even _do_ anything and he _cursed_ at me and just— _threw this_ at me!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, I’m sure there was a misunderstanding—can I get you anything? Oh, your shoes, I’m so sorry, sir; Sam here is so sorry, too—aren’t you, Sam?”

Sam grumbles, “Sorry,” and, with Meg turned towards him, Dean is safe to throw him a small, satisfied grin.

Meg’s attention back to the omega, Dean nearly tears up. “I’m, I just wanted to, y’know, do some shopping, and, and…”

Okay, enough. Sam turns on his heels and stomps towards the EMPLOYEES ONLY door.

Hears his manager yelling after him, ignores it.

He doesn’t hide, no. Just stays with his forehead to the wall, hands clenched around the cleaning supplies, in the darkness. Just for a couple of moments. Just to clear his head.

You’re too old for this shit. You should know better.

Doesn’t exactly scream ‘success’ to me, kid. Plenty of people out there grow up without a mother, it’s not like _they_ get a free ticket.

Sam wants to bolt out of the room. Wants to bang the door, scare any nearby customer off and growl at them if they look his way. But he keeps his elbows tucked in and he keeps his head low.

He drags the mobile cleaning station over to the crime scene and at least Dean’s not there anymore (still somewhere in the store though, Sam can smell _that_ ). He mops and sweeps with calculated, strict movements. Gets on all fours to peer underneath the fridge, to make sure he gets rid of every trace, every miniscule shard or splatter.

Feet appear in his peripheral. Soaked, dirty sneakers. Sam ignores.

“She agreed that if you apologize right, all’s gonna be fine.”

Sam scrubs the current spot with emphasis.

Crumbs fall to the newly-wiped floor. He can hear Dean chewing.

A blasé, “You’re not very good at this job-thing,” and Sam pushes himself to a stand, then.

Stands tall and broad-chested in his polyester tee, his name tag. Pushes his glasses back up where they belong on the slender bridge of his nose, and he fixes the small thing with all the silent threat he has to offer with sweat pearling on his large forehead.

He articulates loud and clear: “I am very sorry, sir. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. It won’t happen again.”

His half-sibling—the rat, the useless little cunt—considers him with a held-back smirk that turns into a pout instead. “Yeah, it better,” he tuts, wipes his chips-gunk covered fingers on his hoodie, rolls the bag of chips closed. “For someone who looks like they can’t afford to lose a job, maybe you should try a little harder next time.”

Another customer is watching them, listening to them, hiding behind their cart. And Meg’s eyeing them, too, for sure. Sam can feel that. Can always feel that.

Tells Dean, “Have a nice day,” all airy and soft, and is back on the floor, cleaning, as those footsteps finally retreat.

Sam makes a point of scrubbing away every last hint of the chocolate milk trail Dean’s shoes leave behind.

~

In the office’s tiny kitchen, Mitch slaps him on the back, grins at him as he startles. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Sam clears his throat. Unfreezes his hands that were just planted next to his empty cup, remember to pull the bag of coffee from the cupboard he had already opened.

“Slow day, huh?”

Sam mirrors, “Slow day, yeah,” and sets up the machine, all auto-pilot.

Mitch settles in, sets his empty cup aside from him on the counter to patiently wait for Sam to get the much-needed refill going.

“Started seeing someone, did you? Good for you, man, good for you.”

“Thanks.”

“I always say: it’s so important to get back on track. Saddle that horse.” Mitch forms a fist, shakes it. Smiles, all encouraging. “Can’t keep clinging to the past forever, y’know, life goes _on_ , I always say that—what’s-her-name, Jennifer?”

“Jessica.”

“ _Jessica_ , right, right—look, I mean, she was hot and it was tragic and all that, but you don’t get any younger, y’know? I’m sure if it were the other way around, she’d been mated and married _weeks_ later.”

Sam offers, “Yeah, probably,” and gives a polite smile.

Water begins to boil, trickle through the overfull filter. Sam’s perfected his coffee skills over the few weeks he’s been here, been volunteering and squeezing in wherever he could, wherever they’d let him. They respect him, he thinks. As far as respect goes in this sausage-fest of a chancery.

Mitch’s a friend of a friend of his professor. Had rejected Jess years ago for the same position he came around accepting Sam into. Remembers her brightly, he says; _can you **believe** the balls on an O coming into my office and asking for a fucking **job**?_

And Sam’s prof, goddamn beta, of course he’d fill Mitch in. Not a soul on campus who doesn’t know.

Sam can’t wait for graduation. Can’t wait for semester after semester to pass by, bring new faces, oblivious faces—people who weren’t at the service, who weren’t bombarded with press folk or took part in the demonstrations.

They’re in his dreams, sometimes. The banners, angry faces, shouting faces—HONOR KILLINGS like a slur, a haunting terror, even though he had not been a part of it. Didn’t have a say. There’s things you don’t intervene with; natural things.

What happened obviously wasn’t _a crime_ , but the Moores did have to move eventually.

A nudge to Sam’s shoulder. “Jus’ make sure to keep those matches locked away this time around, huh,” laughs Mitch, and the coffee is almost done.

~

Mail, front door, keys into the bowl.

Sam tosses his bags off himself, throws his jacket into the general direction of the coat hangers; doesn’t take off his shoes as he stomps across the living room, up the stairs. His hands unbuckle his belt, pull it from his jeans blindly, numbly.

The house is quiet but for the pump of his blood. The thunder of his steps.

The rat’s smell guides Sam into his Dad’s bedroom, and the door isn’t locked. He walks right up to the bed and he goes down on one knee, shoves his available arm underneath the bed, grabs an ankle and pulls.

Dean lunges at him as soon as he can, but Sam’s not stupid.

The knife rams into his forearm instead of his face, and Sam’s hand wraps around Dean’s on the handle and he yanks it free, wrestles it from those claws and tosses it away, across the room, and Dean screeches bloody murder but Sam’s got him, now.

Two hands on that throat and Sam slams that head down onto the floor once, twice, thrice.

Warns, simply, “Don’t,” but the omega is stunned from the blows anyway, can’t do much but gasp despite the firm chokehold, blind flurry of fingers and arms that don’t go anywhere, drop to his sides instead.

A weak, wounded groan. Distress. Pain.

“You don’t get to do that.”

His hands dismiss Dean’s throat to tear his shirt off instead. Dean coughs, pitiful, and Sam wrestles him to his stomach.

The zip ties spill from the back of Sam’s jeans as he yanks one of them free. Dean’s arms are easy to bend and fold; he ties those wrists tight and adds another bind around those forearms for good measure.

A warm trickle makes its way down his arm, his elbow. He ignores that, inhales the thick air between them instead, can’t think, won’t think.

Dean stole a pair of Sam’s boxers to wear underneath his jeans. Sam yanks those down, too.

“You wanna have fun, yeah? You like having fun?”

His fingers retrieve the belt, and the first strike is sloppy—barely connects, hurts Sam’s hand more than it hurts Dean’s ass, but the second is a vast improvement, and he loses count after the third.

Falls into a blind rhythm, Dean’s thighs caught between Sam’s knees, and the smack of the metal buckle of skin is loud, louder than Dean’s cries until they aren’t.

Sam lets up for a second and Dean sobs pitifully. Smothered by the floor and unable to twist away, his options are limited to just lay there and wait for it to be over.

Sam pants, hauls for breath. Blinks through sweat and the curtain of his loose hair. Can’t make sense of the state Dean’s skin blooms to, now, so fucking fast and devastating and it worsens by the second.

The belt clatters to the floor, and Sam falls to all fours, head dipped low so he can continue catching his breath, can loom over the barely-writhing figure underneath him.

“Look what you made me do.”

Dean’s nose sounds blocked. His whimpers are hoarse.

“Having fun yet?” croaks Sam, noses into that hair, behind that ear. “You having fun yet, baby?”

Kid’s easy to carry, easy to move. Hardly struggles against what’s happening, too busy with the paralyzing pain in his backside. Sam clears the table in his office with a swipe of Dean’s legs, puts him down atop of it. Folds those legs underneath that body and Dean bawls like a baby for that, can’t do much against Sam tying each of his feet to one leg of the table.

Hasn’t moved, can’t, once Sam comes back from a short trip to his bedroom. The collar closes around his throat just-so, snatched up tight and the leash winds around its own table leg, gets secured here so that head won’t be able to raise, not an inch.

Sam pulls his cock out of his jeans as he circles the table, kicks books and papers out of the way. Wipes his arm across his sweat-soaked forehead and hisses for the surprise of that burn; stares at his arm and forgot about the fucking cut—a slit, right there, warm and slick and spilling bright-red, but not too much. It can wait.

“You can have all the fun you want,” he says, rubs three fingers where Dean’s naturally spread now in his bondage, ass-up and opened at a convenient height with his pussy hovering right over the edge of the table.

Sam spits on his fingers before he grinds them inside. The bitch doesn’t disappoint—fear-slick and maybe the pill, and maybe being spread and presenting with an alpha in the same room—and Sam corkscrews all three fingers in to the knuckles, crooks and fucks at those raw, unharmed insides until Dean sobs, once and broken.

One hand on the small of that back, those bound arms out of reach and Sam grinds his hips forward, replaces his fingers with his cock seamlessly, without effort.

It’s a good angle and the omega whimpers, begs, “I’m sorry,” but Sam pops his cock back into that pussy, the sweet, hurt clench of it, fucking addicting and he swears he can feel the omega shuddering with the shared pleasure of it, with Sam pulling back straight away just to dip back in, and out, and again, and again.

Sam fucks him in long, powerful strokes. Thumbs down that crack to rub at that tailbone, that hungry mouth just below, and Dean groans with every push that connects Sam’s pelvis with the carnage that is his ass.

Broken skin here and there. Blackish-blue welts where the buckle connected hardest, fucking searing hot to the touch; swollen.

“You better get comfy,” says Sam, “’cause you’re not going anywhere.”

~

He pries that mouth open to slip the pink pill atop that tongue, feeds his cock in there right after.

The omega huffs through his nose.

Sam tells him, “Eat up,” and anchors his hand in that hair just because.

He shoves himself down that collar-tight throat without the requirement to be patient. Even like this, it’s comfortable.

Tied down, stuck, sore. Those hands change color, slowly but surely. He’ll have to cut him loose, probably, overnight. But not yet.

“I thought since we’re having fun, I might as well grab some toys.”

He sniffles, fucking tonsil-deep, and upturns the flimsy plastic bag between Dean and the wall. Dean’s blindfolded, cock-stuffed face can’t speak, and neither can his scent—too overwhelmed. So sharp it stings in Sam’s eye, makes his nose itch.

Bitch has cost him so much money already. Feels stupid, now, after this weird run to the pharmacy, throwing more of his precious savings around but God he can’t help it.

He’s got plans, though. Always does. Started setting things in motion already, but—later.

Everything that happened today easily justifies every single layer of punishment Sam can and will come up with.

He tells him, “You’ll like this one,” as he rips apart some packaging. “Don’t deserve it, but whatever.”

Sam squirts a healthy amount of stimulating lube over the vibe before he stuffs it up Dean’s ass. It’s generously sized but the curved shape is the main selling point, and as soon as he flicks on the vibration, Sam gets an idea why.

Immediate goosebumps.

Good thing the base is so flared, because that pussy is clenching around it, hard.

“Like a pacifier,” grins Sam, amused by the thought, turned on by the sight and the instant, more pleasurable tint of scent.

Dean’s muffled little moan hums right along his cock.

“You swallowed yet?”

Sam takes his time with that hole. Strokes himself slow and nice, fucks his own fist on the pull-out. Lets the kid cough up some slobber after a while, lets him gurgle for some well-needed air.

That little face is all flushed. It’s not like Sam can’t smell that arousal.

He smacks his cock down on that shivery-open mouth, those perfect lips. And Dean does try to chase it; he _does_.

Would tremble if he could. Attempts to rock back on that toy without his own say-so. A blind chase for it.

“I know, baby, I know.”

Sam entertains the scene for a little longer. A glance at the clock punches regret into his guts until he realizes it’s about to turn into a Sunday.

God, he’s gonna fucking lose it.

A rut in progress, maybe. The now-bandaged stab wound on his arm throbs absently, pleasantly.

Dean doesn’t get a warning: the scissors snap through the zip ties and his arms drop to his sides, entirely powerless, and his vocal complaint is probably more than valid.

“You brought this onto yourself,” reminds Sam, but does rub those extremities back into circulation with his hands. “Stop being such a fucking bitch.”

Once free, Sam carries the kid downstairs. Leash around that next table leg but Dean could move a few inches if he wanted; can’t lie down, though.

Huffs, irritated, without orientation. Mainly for the vibe still buzzing away at his g-spot though, if Sam had to guess. Those numb devil-fingers wrap to mittens with the help of just a bit of duct tape. But since this is Dean, he adds another few rounds.

Satisfied, Sam leaves him on the floor in favor of throwing together some dinner for himself. He peers over every now and then to see the kid struggling, nodding off. Trying to find a comfortable position just to fail.

Sam smiles to himself.

“Just keep it in there. Don’t suck it. Yeah. You got it.”

Baby’s nose huffs its exhausted breath into Sam’s pubes, and the sensation of him trying to swallow is almost enough to get Sam’s cock interested again. But Sam pushes that away, thumbs at the TV remote and begins to eat.

Fatigue pulls at him now, gradually. Has him floating, rids him of that accumulated tension, the anger. He chews his food, lets his hand drift between his legs to pet the omega’s head.

Yeah. Just like this.

Back in bed, Dean squirms only a little. Makes a soft, unhappy noise upon Sam pulling the toy out, but tucks his little face into Sam’s chest, doesn’t try and protest being fingered, played around with; no.

Sam chuckles, fucking delirious. Adjusts the camcorder so it catches the bruises on that ass as well as the slick, swollen pink he’s burying his cock in.

With Dean’s leg pulled over Sam’s hip, the view is ideal.

He gets several nice shots before he’s decided it’s enough. Snaps his hips for real now and Dean gasps, overwhelmed, moaning dry into Sam’s tit and all Sam’s gotta do is keep his arm wrapped around him, holds him tight on that shoulder and around that darling leg, keeps him spread and available.

If it’s not too blurry, maybe he can use that footage, too.

“Gonna load up this pussy, little one,” he croons, his head ducked so he can slur all that dirt right into that face, “like you fucking need it.”

His knot swells dangerously fast and yeah, definitely a rut. All that blood in the air, probably, the adrenaline. He peers at the camera, at the preview screen—watches that hole nursing on him, not pulling out anymore already because he won’t risk it, and God, it’s nice to feel his knot making room, stretching that pussy out all secret, unseen.

Dean whimpers all sobby upon the first contraction of Sam’s balls, that first, violent jut of his cock. Sam watches it happen on camera, how his nuts pump and pump and yet nothing’s gonna ooze out beyond that fucking hungry clench of that pussy, not one single drop.

Sam sighs with the relief. Runs his hand down that back while he still spills all creamy and thick, while the omega’s body milks him without meaning to. Perfect.

Soothes, “You’re so fucking dirty,” half-inside Dean’s slobbery mouth, and he drifts off just like that.

~

The blindfold must have come off when they tossed and turned in their brief sleep.

Dean chirps, “I’m hungry,” all timid and fearful.

Sam scoffs. Rubs at his eye. “Should’ve thought of that before fucking stabbing me.”

He grabs a handful of tit and fondles that. Loves that Dean is smart enough to angle his arm away, give him more space to get his fill. Probably thinks that it will get him what he wants, being all cute and slutty like that.

It’s bright out. Maybe eight, nine AM.

Sam yawns before he ducks his head to put his mouth on that premature tit. Suckles on it like it’ll feed him, and his morning wood likes the thought.

Doesn’t think it went down, at all.

The sheets are soaked with his come; so is Dean. Even more of it drools out upon him pushing himself back in there, and those taped mittens wrap around his head like Dean wants him to keep sucking his tits.

Which was Sam’s plan anyway. “Gonna have to plug you,” he murmurs around all that soft flesh, balls-deep and Dean’s ass is still so fucking sore, so bruised and hot when he runs his hand over it.

Dean can’t do much but whimper and let Sam rut into him. Let himself get used, and it’s about time he figured that one out.

He knots the kid and pushes them apart just to get a better look—at those tits, Dean’s dream-flat little belly with that again-growing pooch below his navel.

He hums and gets a hand down there to rub over that bare bump of skin.

Dean makes a heartbreak-sound.

“So cute,” croons Sam, tongue back in that slick little mouth, eating at it loudly while Dean humps back on his knot, all natural.

“So handy. We’d have to lock that if you still had it. But this is so much better.”

Dean sobs like a dream.

“Does it turn you on? That you can’t make yourself come?”

Whisper-huffed, “Please,” and Sam grunts into that mouth, one hand between those legs, still, while the other grabs back around that tit.

“Need it so bad, don’t you?” and Dean nods all dumb, and Sam can’t help but laugh at him. “Poor little baby. So _needy_.” A dry sob, but that chest arches up into his palm all the same.

Sam feels himself smiling from ear to ear.

“But that’s not what this pussy is for, baby. It’s for us alphas to use to get off, dump our load in and put you away until we want it again. ’S why you’re always so wet for it. For me.”

His nails skirt along the leftover knob throning the faint, vertical scar, and he gets a hold of those wrists just in time before they can try to push him off, make him stop.

Honest, big fat tears.

Sam kisses it better.

~

Kid’s all distant, not-here. Eyes out the window, the streets flying by somewhere out of his reach.

Sam watches him sway with the bus’ movements, that little hand curled tight around one of the support straps dangling above their heads.

Showered and wrapped into some of those new, so-far-ignored clothes Dad had so lovingly purchased and laid out, Dean almost looks decent. Like a normal kid, normal omega.

Still smells like sex, though. Faint whore-blush around his mouth, his ears.

Sam likes how, in contrast to that rotten hoodie, the barely-there shapes of Dean’s tits are no secret in this fitted tee, the zipped-up jacket.

He yanks the latter open at that thought and dwells in the startle, the scowl.

The little collared and bruised one grumbles, “Don’t,” but doesn’t (can’t) attempt to undo the damage.

Sam grins up at him, seated comfortably with his knees wide to accommodate the meager child between them.

The bus isn’t too busy—church’s already started, and the usual sinners are not up yet. Some people in here, sure, and it’s no taboo to drag your omega around like Sam does, with them smelling like Dean does. With the bruises scattered where the collar doesn’t cover. Nobody can see the plug nestled behind those jeans, but they sure can smell the artificial baby-hints of heat.

Sam’s got a persistent semi he’s not gonna lose any time soon. Lets his leg bounce freely, enjoys the sharpness, the pleasant edge of his rut. His laptop bag idles beside him, patiently.

“How old were you? When, you know.” Sam makes a scissor motion with his fingers.

Dean’s puffy eyes glare at him.

“It’s done pre-heat, right?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Sam chuckles, pleased. “Sure, whatever. They’re gonna send your records over soon, anyway.”

Dean fixes him for another moment before his gaze is back on the outside world. Or, somewhere beyond.

The bus pulls to a halt. Someone exits, someone else gets in, takes a seat.

The engine splutters back alive, and Dean murmurs, “Eight.”

“Eight?”

“I was eight, I think,” he clarifies, far away. “I don’t remember.”

Sam clicks his tongue. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t think it would take him aback. Didn’t feel real until now, somehow, and Sam only begins to realize that.

He huffs. The world is pretty messed up.

“Jessica,” he hears, and meets Dean’s eyes on the way up. “That’s her, right? The girl in the picture.”

All of Sam’s blood freezes. He inquires, “What?” and can’t feel the sounds.

“Jessica,” repeats the bastard, oblivious, empty.

“How…?”

“You talk in your sleep, sometimes.”

Sam’s blind and deaf. Opens his mouth to say something, but can’t find any words. Any letters.

Just sits there, paralyzed.

Looks back at Dean, but not really. Sees him talking, hears him, and yet not.

“Is she your ex or something?” Silence. “Did you break up with her? Or she with you?”

Sam says, “She died,” and maybe Dean asks something else after that, but if he does, Sam doesn’t hear it.

~

The park is peacefully quiet. A warm spring day. The playground is far off just enough for the air to carry not more than a bare sing-song of laughter.

“You tape that to the inside of the door. And put these in so I can tell you what to do.”

Dean’s scent spikes with nervousness, with sour sweat.

He looks down at the camcorder in his hands, back up at Sam.

“I—I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to,” promises Sam, thumbs the wireless buds into those stubborn ears. “Just do what I say and you’re fine. I’ll stay back here.”

Kid’s all fear, now.

Sam pushes at him, rolls his eyes. “I said you’re fine. _Move_.”

Sam glares after him in person, settles into the shadows with his laptop and his old pair of headphones, flips the thing open.

He navigates back to the stream he set up somewhere between Dean making breakfast and them heading out the door; a few dozen viewers already and the numbers grow, now that there’s live feed.

Dean’s sneakers on the mossy tiles halt at a considerably-sized puddle before he makes up his mind and hops over it.

The bathroom stall is tiny, but so is Dean. A good, long close-up of his pinched face as he sets the camcorder up like Sam instructed (listening, for once, with his ass still beaten raw like it is as a great reminder, apparently)—the duct tape is fucking loud, echoes in the tiled, dimly lit space.

Dean steps back. The distance cuts off his feet, his head.

After a hesitating moment, his little voice asks, “And now?”

“Now you wait,” says Sam via the mic in the cord.

Dean knows the main set-up, what’s gonna happen. Doesn’t know he’s live, maybe thinks this is just for Sam’s private collection or something. If he knows more, he sure doesn’t seem to mind.

Well, the predicament at hand is probably challenging enough.

On-screen, Dean turns and twists to take the stall in. Hesitates before he peels at the tape-covered edges of the circular cut-out on the left wall. There’s another to his right, which he ignores.

Eventually, the omega considers the lid-less toilet—the floor. Neither passes the test for his tender ass to plant down on, so he just crosses his arms in front of his chest, bends over to glare directly into the lens.

Sam and currently two-hundred-something people hear him complain about, “How much longer?”

It’s so fucking perfect that Sam has to put all his control into not laughing out loud.

He repeats, patiently, “You wait.”

Five minutes pass, maybe ten. Sam loses count of that over the rising viewer count, the donations beginning to trickle in—the chat, its suggestions, its comments.

Sam is good with words. He had set up an ad in one of the forums he remembered from Brady’s tales and that had worked well, apparently.

Dean is money on legs. Doesn’t take a high IQ to figure that one out.

_raxxxxor  
aw look at him_

_xxxxdad56  
that’s 2 fcking qt_

_sugarspiceerythingnice  
does he have any idea lol????_

_TheBulk  
what a baby_

_megalover77  
but honestly if this bitch aint cut I want my fucking money back_

Sam’s heart kicks into his ribs at the sound of footsteps nearing the public restroom—the fact that neither the audience nor Dean can hear them, yet. That they have no clue.

It’s all a blur until finally, actually, Dean’s head perks up on-screen.

True terror glazes over that face.

No peep while the person (alpha, presumably; Sam caught a whiff of them) makes their way to one of the stalls, gets in, locks the door.

Faint noise of a zipper coming undone. Of someone urinating into the toilet.

Dean’s eyes plead with the camcorder.

Sam secret-murmurs, “Stay. And. Wait.”

The chat is growing, conspiring. Sam can’t take his eyes off the screen even if he wanted.

The toilet flushes. The zipper doesn’t announce itself.

Nor does the person leave.

Sam imagines whispers of skin on skin. Them stroking themselves to fullness, maybe.

And, yeah.

There it is.

Dean’s expression is a silent beg.

“Take off your jacket, baby.”

It takes a moment for Sam’s order to register. The shift of fabrics feels so fucking loud. Now only covered by that tee, Dean’s stiff nipples are clearly visible. His lips are parted, his breath flat and quiet.

He drops the jacket into a corner he considers least filthy.

“Now the jeans.”

Dean doesn’t look back at the camera. Has his head hanging oh-so-slightly. Trembles with the rabbit-kick of his escalating pulse, if Sam had to guess.

The cock peeking through the hole in the wall twitches, patiently.

The chat escalates upon the omega finally complying—upon him shimmying the thick fabric down his legs, exposing the black-blue of his beaten ass.

You can’t see details like that in profile, but it’s clear that the kid’s cut-down.

Donations jump from a few bucks to one hundred, two, three, five.

So many emojis.

“Put it in there,” is Sam’s next, low command, and god, he forgot about the plug Dean tries to free as soundlessly as possible.

A squelch, a shy throat-noise—a generous drool of Sam’s come down those white thighs.

Jesus Christ. “Step out of your pants, put ’em aside. Yeah. Now fucking _get_ to it.”

It’s all bated breath. Finesse-less grab of Dean’s hand on that stranger’s cock and he’s surrendered to his predicament, apparently; face flushed with humiliation and eyes definitely wet, and he sniffles, held-back, as he breaches his free hand on the opposite wall (that crammed, Jesus) and pushes himself backwards.

A faint, pleased hum from the other side of the wall, but all everybody hears (or, Sam can only speak for himself) is Dean’s baby-noise of discomfort, of shyness.

It’s a piece of art, watching it unfold.

Watching Dean settling in, giving up. Dropping his head and working that stranger up inside him, bare, fucking slutty without even trying to. Can take his hand off, soon, puts that one on the wall as well and tries his best to not make a sound upon fucking himself on that stranger’s cock.

Sam’s well-equipped enough not to be vulnerable to jealousy of this kind, but wow, they’re everything but small.

A startled chirp upon Sam whispering, “Taking that dick so well for me,” and Baby’s ass stutters, shudders.

“Is he in your pussy, baby? He better be.”

Dean gives the faintest of nods, and Sam’s cock lurches against the inside of his zipper, hard.

“Good fucking boy,” he grunts. “Now fuck yourself. Do it right.”

The omega tries his limited best, considering he doesn’t want to be here or do this. Bounces back on that cock like he maybe means it, like he knows he’s getting paid.

Looks back at it, where it’s slopping in and out of him, and the cam even manages to pick up that quiver of a lip.

Shorter, quicker strokes.

Sam can’t feel his face. “Pull your shirt up. Pull it over your head so it’s caught in your—exactly, fuck, _yeah_.”

Baby’s tits shudder under the impact in full view now. Peaked tiny things and they look so goddamn juicy even in this shitty light, so pinked and bitten and well-taken-care-of. Sam hallucinates his bite marks on there, the faint bruised indent of a stray tooth.

He love-hates to share this. Love-hates even more that he even fucking cares.

Dean’s breathing open-mouthed and uncaring, now. Is so fucking wet, you can hear that, and it’s not all Sam’s leftover load anymore, can’t be.

Sam’s getting fucking double vision because there’s sounds of another stall opening, and he didn’t even fucking hear the person entering the restrooms.

Neither did Dean, apparently, because he whines, shudders, stops his movements just to have the stranger doing that part for him. You can hear chuckling over the wet noise of them fucking, an encouraging little thing before another cock pushes through the remaining glory hole right next to Dean’s face.

Sam doesn’t even get a chance to open his fucking mouth before Dean’s already wrapped his lips around that cock.

He’ll have to compose a fucking fan-letter to B-FREE’s headquarters.

Will have to leave all the positive reviews on every fucking platform because goddamn.

_o-man69  
what a fucking slut omg_

_yourdadspeanutbutterjar_  
_look at him goooo_

_raxxxxor  
there you go little one, perfect_

_anon420  
lololololol exactly what he needed_

Must hurt him like hell, the way he’s slamming his ass back against the wall to chase all the depth, all the stimuli he can get. Has his eyes closed and works on the edge of his gag reflex, not caring for his noises anymore, and Sam chooses that exact moment to trigger the shock collar, and Baby jumps beautifully.

Shivers so fucking violently that, for a terrifying second, Sam considers that he’s coming. And maybe that’s what happens, but it gets lost in the frenzy, in the now visibly and rapidly swelling knot of dick number one.

“Don’t let him tie you,” croaks Sam, sweats. “Ride it out, hand on his knot. Yeah, exactly.”

On-screen Dean whimpers; the alpha comes quietly, knows this is live after all, is maybe mated or simply wants to stay anonymous. Without the knot plugging the kid up, his come gushes back out in steady pulses soon enough, and Dean is left wringing that exposed knot as hard as he can (or cares to) while working his mouth on that other guy.

The lack of the tie has the first alpha flagging rapidly, and he has to retreat after just a couple of moments. Dean gasps for that; the sudden loss of fullness and friction, and God, the mess runs down his legs now, despite all his efforts.

“Fuck him, too,” and Dean is quick to comply.

Turns around, lines the alpha up and it’s so easy from there.

Has him bottoming out nearly immediately, grinds on him so fucking greedy and moans for it.

Murmurs, something, under his breath. Has his head knocking against the opposite wall, flushed all the way down to his tits where he puts one of his hands now, begins to play with one of his nipples all thoughtless, all rough, and Sam wishes he could smell him right now.

Wishes he could be the guy buried in that body, about to blow, fill him up even more.

“Y’know what to do,” is all he can muster himself up to, and watches along with thousands of others how his half-brother milks that knot out as well.

Baby’s a filthy, shaky mess. Glassy-eyed and weak-kneed and Sam ends the stream then, abruptly, because he needs to get in there, because that’s all distance he can take for now.

One alpha is still cleaning up in the sink by the time he rushes past, wants to say something when Sam barges right into that middle stall but doesn’t (good for him).

“Look at you,” he mumbles, fucking lost, fucking in love, rut-drunk and Dean’s so gooey, so putty in his hands. All sweaty and heated and he’s barely conscious again by the time Sam’s cleaned him up enough, worked the plug back into him. Rucks those jeans back up those doe-legs, last.

Croaks, faintly, “Is it over?” and Sam lies, “Yeah. Yeah, baby, and you did so well.”

Sam’s just earned three months’ worth of paychecks within fifteen minutes.

Sam kisses that honey-trap mouth, is welcomed all sweet and warm and wet. Yanks that tee back down, covers all that milk-skin, for now.

Sam retrieves Dean’s jacket from the corner with the (admittedly) smallest puddle of dirt-water before he drags the kid and his camera back into the sunlight.

There’s a breakfast place nearby. Sam maneuvers the kid into a booth before he slips in, too.

He orders for Dean and himself. Doesn’t really care or pay attention. He’s still buzzing, still can’t believe what just happened.

This is good. This is great.

Dean comes back alive somewhere around the last third of his strawberry milkshake. Burps, tiredly, and blinks at the table, at Sam, like he doesn’t remember sitting down.

Sam keeps on chewing (bacon? pancake? something), smiles at him.

“Your heat always hit like that?”

Dean’s expression crumbles to a frown very, very slowly.

He scoffs, tosses his hair. Reaches for a strip of bacon on Sam’s plate to stuff into his mouth.

“Hey.”

Dean insists, “I’m starvin’,” and steals more food. Sam scoffs.

“And here I thought you already got your share of protein for the day.”

“You’re so fucking funny.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” The kid shoves another handful of food past his battered lips. He chews open-mouthed just to make a point. “You gonna beat my ass in front of everyone, mister lawyer?”

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches.

“Did you sniff around in my stuff?”

“’S not my problem if you don’t lock your shit up right.”

Dean sucks his lips around the straw of Sam’s coke and steals that, too. He belches, sets the glass aside. Waves Sam off. “’Sides,” he blabbers, looking for the next piece of food he wants, “how much did we make?”

Underneath the table, Sam plays a very one-sided game of footsie with him.

~

He plays the video back at him while they wait. If only to keep Dean’s spirits up, make him all flustered and wet all over again.

It’s still only two PM. “Mh, that part.”

“You’re sick,” accuses Dean, and Sam snickers to himself for the mirror-flush on video and real life.

Cars pass them, until one doesn’t.

“You Adam?” the alpha hollers, and Sam replies, “Yeah,” and tugs laptop and kid along into the car.

Distrustful eyes from the backseat, in the rearview.

“Isn’t he just a peach,” the alpha croons, and Sam cuts over the opening mouth of the little heathen to announce that, “Start driving.”

Dean scowls in silence. Doesn’t attempt to speak, not once. Maybe Sam’s warning glare is enough to keep it that way. Doesn’t matter why, ultimately.

They pull into a dirt road, not far off the city. Sam gets his cash and sits by the front tires.

Nothing but the wind in the trees. The scratch of fabric on skin, Dean’s swallowed-down protests.

Sam turns towards them, after all. “Can I film it?”

“Film it?” The alpha frowns, confused; flattered, maybe. “Uh, sure? Just don’t show my face, I guess.”

Sam crawls closer to where they are in the open backseat. Where the alpha has rucked Dean’s ass up, face in those seats and Sam and him meet eyes, briefly, and Dean turns his face out of sight, then.

Fine. The action is elsewhere, anyway.

Where the john yanks Dean’s jeans down just to growl. Yeah, Sam did some good work with that belt.

More obvious in the sun—all those welts. The popped capillaries in varying degrees of depth and color, pooling right under that cotton-white skin.

A barely-there hitch upon the alpha running his hands across the splay of it. Dick already out and in his fist; a thumb now play-pressing down on the base of the plug.

There’s too much hunger for spoken words. For endearments or humiliation, and Sam wonders if he should charge more, next time. Should have predicted that people would be fucking mesmerized, fucking love-struck for a chance to get their knot wet in a bitch like this.

The plug comes free without ceremony, is followed by a shy rush of come and the humiliated flutter of the kid’s fingers. Should be off-putting, to see how used and dirty the omega is. Isn’t, somehow. Not with Dean.

Suits him. Perfects him.

Sam moves in on them on the languid push-in, of Dean’s little body accepting so much, again, despite being bloated and full and beaten already. Makes a faint noise, somewhere, buried in cheap artificial leather and the john rucks him backwards some more, both hands on those hips. Look wider, like this, knees far apart and the perspective is flattering.

A pleased growl at the heat, the clutch, and Dean shrieks wild for the sole, punishing flat-handed hit to his bruised ass.

Sobs, adorably, under the wordless praise from deep within that chest, for the alpha push-pulling him by the hips like he wants to, needs to, to make his cock at home in that pussy.

“So tender, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

Sam’s lips suck between his teeth, and he can’t keep his hands away, not this close; but that’s probably fine as long as his voice isn’t in there. Manages to reach a tit and pinch at it, gains another hurt thing that goes straight to every available cock.

“Poor baby,” the guy croons, and slams his hand across the other cheek.

Sam’s circled the car and climbed into the back faster than he can form the actual thought. Yanks at the zipper of his jeans and Dean’s tear-wet eyes gleam up at him from the shadows, swollen little face and Sam’s gotta crouch in some fucking spine-wrecking way but he manages. Most important thing is that throat gulping around his cock, the thick slime of his precome embedding itself back across that tongue.

His property.

Hand in Dean’s hair and he’s easy to operate thanks to the lingering heat. Works himself up onto his elbows until he’s a nearly-straight line, until Sam can fuck his face as comfortably as the other alpha does with his ass.

Sam tapes it all—the fever-bliss heat in those cheeks, the closed, dark fan of those lashes; sweat and tears spilling and his skinny ass rippling under the impact of the other guy’s beer-belly, the rough use he puts his pussy through without a hint of restraint. He’s paid for this, after all.

“Gonna knot,” and, yeah, that.

Baby scrambles, oddly terrified again but maybe that’s just because the guy climbs in and over him, blankets him and he’s heavy, suffocating in a different way than Sam, and Dean tries to keep his mouth available for Sam through it all, through gasping for the sudden attention of now-available hands for his tits, shoved under that tee and kneading too-hard, on the edge of cruel, judging by the sounds.

Sam’s the one on his feet, now, outside the car. Rolls his hips, camera low to catch the alpha rutting his knot into the soft little body beneath him, Dean’s eyes wide and on Sam, nobody but Sam, neck craned beautifully; broken.

Sam blows his load mutely, into the shivery cavity of Dean’s mouth, his throat. Has him swallowing and failing, gasping and making a mess while that stranger buries his teeth in the crook of Dean’s neck, holding on like that while he fills him to the brim, again. Is gonna make him look all swollen, again, baby-heavy, and Sam’s fucking soul aches, it aches and it writhes, doomed, restless, unfailing even after all this time.

Dean gags on the remnants of his last mouthful, and Sam claps him across his far-gone, empty face for it.

~

He notices the blinking red light of the answering machine only after his last round through the house. Checks the number and doesn’t recognize, only thumbs for callback because there’s no less than five missed calls from them.

_“Department of Children and Family Services, you’re talking to Geralt, how can I help you?”_

“Hi, uh, Winchester. Sam.” He turns to his side, even though Dean’s upstairs, tied to the bed. Can’t possibly hear him. “You called me.”

_“Oh, Mr. Winchester, yes, yes. Oh,”_ they say, casually, _“we were just checking up. Is Dean adjusting okay?”_

“Sure.”

_“It’s just protocol, sir—”_

“Sure.”

_“—may I speak to him, maybe?”_

“He’s already asleep.”

_“Ah, another time, then. Glad he’s getting some rest, finally.”_

“Yeah, and from what, exactly? My dad kinda—” Sam readjust his posture over the phone, stares at nothing beyond the wall in front of him. “—our dad, he had to leave for work right after dropping him off, and I’m kinda—there were no papers or anything.”

_“We mailed them over right away,”_ they say, _“maybe deliveries are a little slow? Maybe check between papers and ads, they might be—”_

Sam snaps, “What’s the fucking deal with him?” voice held-back and down low and it’s a violent whisper, and he feels desperate all of a sudden, terrified. “I don’t know this kid, and you guys just send him over and—he fucking—” He cuts himself off, scratches over the bandaged stab wound on his arm. “He, has he, like—anger issues or something?”

_“Why, did something happen?”_

“No. No, he just.” Sam pauses. Considers. “It’s kinda obvious, s’all.”

_“Mr. Winchester,”_ they say, _“I’m not supposed to talk about this over the phone.”_

Sam knows that when he insists, “I have the fucking right to know if there’s a criminal in my house, Geralt,” it’s a lie, and he doesn’t expect them to break, he doesn’t. But the system is flawed, rotten to its bones, apparently.

Because he hears a stiff, _“Well,”_ and they’re probably beta. Can hear the alpha in Sam’s voice, have it whipping around their head all the way through the phone. _“I mean, the authorities weren’t involved, but.”_

“Assault?”

_“Yeah.”_

“The dad?”

_“What? No,”_ and Sam can’t catch himself reeling before they tell him, _“Another foster kid. Nothing too major, though,”_ they say, and Sam can’t feel his face, _“they’ve been out of the hospital for a few days now. But you can check the details in the reports.”_

Sam tells them, “Okay,” and there’s nothing but hollowness.

Sam feigns to have lost interest, finishes the call. They’ll send another copy over, just to make sure; these things get lost in the mail sometimes, don’t they?

Sam cleans up the kitchen before he climbs the stairs, does his nighttime bathroom routine.

For only a beat or two, Sam remains standing in the doorway to his bedroom to take Dean in—bound to the bed, waiting, dozing off. Bare but for the collar, legs fallen open like he forgot, like it doesn’t matter.

Sam’s half-brother’s almost-flat chest rises and falls like a small animal’s. Fragile, feral.

Dean murmurs, eventually, “What?” like a toddler, lazy and droopy.

He can’t quite knuckle his own eye Sam’s restrained his hands so well.

“You comin’ or what?”


End file.
